Maths Week came and went without real incident. Barnaby ran around the football field seven times. There was a family maths quiz which has lain forgotten and trampled on the floor. We scored another matchbox and filled it with Latvian coins. It ripped but I taped it up with all the motherly DIY-skills I could muster. There was a fight between moron parents at the marble jar raffle table, something to do with parking, and one of them swore while both were held back from each other like snarling dogs. Good one, Moron Parents. I do not think anyone really feels any more love for or comprehension of numbers, but thank you for trying, School.

Meanwhile, Custard has developed dags in his hair, a bit like Barbie used to when you did not look after her properly. Well, I never had a Barbie with dags, because I was the baby of the family with lots of toys that I did not have to share and so I choose to hoard my stuff, keeping it all pristine and silken and boxed and unsullied. Which means, I suppose, that I have a better track record with my Barbies than with my own children, and it may well be that my childhood OCD requires further investigation. Ah well. Here are the dags:

They will have to be cut out. The excellent platinum Gaga-tribute hair will have to be hacked into, and for that, I am sorry.

This week I have begun giving the baby real food. This is a terrible, shocking bore. Next to labour and five-year olds, it is the worst thing about having offspring. But look how magnificent Baby Ned looks with an apple:

He is spookily goodlooking. And so clever with his four and a half month old hands.

Now, last post I said that if I had a whole day off I would play scrabble and go shopping in Oxfam and stuff. But I did forget to add that I would LOVE to finally go to The Hidden Tea Rooms. Lady Grey is an American who has set up a secret tearoom somewhere near Old Street. There are weekend dates that are emailed to you in advance – they get booked up quickly because *word on the street* says she is excellent and her cakes are divine and the whole thing is a bit mysterious and fabulous. But I have been thinking that my Bad Kids would be unenthusiastically received and weekend babysitters in the day seems a little bit wrong and so I can only imagine how lovely it would be. Here is the link: www.hiddentearoom.com

Cake, though. Who needs more cake in their lives?

Vogue and Elle say that this season it is all about the beige. Or ‘nude’, or ‘biscuit’. They say that Celine has an excellent collection and really, those are the clothes women want to wear. Utilitarian, pared-down, in shades of beige and biscuit and greyish khaki. But beige is no good for the cake-eater. Nor is Celine. I had tried, really tried to do it right this summer. I have bought beige-y peg-leg trousers and worn with battered converse and breton stripes and Meg Mathews’ old tan leather jacket, but I do not look very good. I look like a clueless suburban lady with unkempt hair. So boo to you, beige police. I am going back to polyester frocks and belts and I shall never, ever wear peg-leg trousers again. Because we have, in our family, thighs like this:

Lesson learnt.